


In My Midnight Confessions

by amine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Platonic Love, Self-Sacrifice, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amine/pseuds/amine
Summary: "It had come as a shock, granted, to realize thatthoselooks were filled not just with the love of a friend, but with such intense longing that anyone with half a brain would realize the truth."





	In My Midnight Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: This was the first real fanfic I wrote for this fandom. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ It has since been revised from its original incarnation, however.

He was used to receiving thinly veiled propositions—a lingering touch here, a warm gaze there. Be it from his fellow nations or the general public, he was no stranger to being wanted.

Unfortunately for all of them he only had eyes for one.

Even more unfortunately it wasn’t in the way that “one” wanted it. 

The same “one” who was in so much of a drunken stupor that he couldn’t walk on his own. The obvious solution was to have America carry him to his room, decided with many meaningful glances in his direction. Of course he’d carry him, he was a hero! At least that was the reasoning he gave as he hoisted the drunken England up on his back, while England cursed him to hell and back for everything he had done.

America didn’t mind, this part was easier than what might come. He’d almost thought he’d escaped when he’d managed to make it back to England’s room with only some bruises and enough curses for several lifetimes. Just as he placed England on his bed and made to move away, a strong, determined hand caught at his wrist. Every nerve in him screamed to keep going as if nothing had happened—England wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway—but against his better judgment, he turned back to meet England’s gaze.

There it was—that soft look, that warm, loving smile. His eyes were filled with so, _so_ much unbridled, unabashed adoration that America almost had to turn his head in shame, but instead he steadfastly kept that gaze. England’s free hand reached up, as if to caress his cheek, but his reach wasn’t long enough and his hand hung in mid-air.

“I love you so much, America,” he said, eyes softening even more if it was possible. America kept carefully still, betraying nothing. Abruptly the hand in the air dropped and his grip on America’s wrist loosened, his eyes closing.

It was only after England started snoring loudly that America finally let out the shuddering sigh he had been holding in. This never got any easier. Nevertheless, he covered England with a blanket and carefully leaned over to kiss his forehead. 

“…I know. Thank you.”

He _had_ known for a very long time—longer than anyone realized. It had come as a shock, granted, to realize that _those_ looks were filled not just with the love of a friend, but with such intense longing that anyone with half a brain would realize the truth.

It wasn’t that he found England’s feelings revolting. Far from it. In fact, it made him happy that England could still love him so much even after all those years. That he could still love him even after all that happened. He just regretted that he could never return those feelings. 

Not that he didn’t love England, because he did. He loved England dearly, but as a dear friend. England had had a hand in raising him, had been a steadfast, loyal ally for many years. Should the world fall away, he knew that England would be there by his side to the bitter end, just as America would do the same for him in return.

He didn’t want to hurt him. He knew how badly the Revolution had hurt him, so he could only imagine how he would react to a straight up rejection. He couldn’t openly acknowledge England’s feelings either, he couldn’t even let England know how much he loved him. No, the best course of action was to willfully act oblivious—neither give England false hope nor take it away. 

He’d never take that smile away, no matter how long he had to keep up that charade, no matter how long England stubbornly held onto his feelings. He’d never fall in love with anyone, nor accept any of those thinly veiled propositions. America would never compromise the happiness of the one most dear to him.

So the following morning, when he saw the way England’s face lit up with hope and happiness at the sight of him before settling into his usual grumpy countenance, it was like second nature to assume a goofy, clueless grin and steel himself for whatever may come.

Let it not be said that he couldn’t really be a hero when need be.


End file.
